This corner of Suffolk was fairly hilly but Dymons Hill was an abrupt mound of chalk, and she could quite see how it would seize the local imagination. It told her nothing about Meggie Brewstock’s death, however. On impulse, she tethered the donkey to a tree and picked her way across the rough sheep pasture toward the hill. She met up with a path which appeared to link the village to the hill. It was faint, but had the depth and permanence of the ancient. There were so many of these paths in England still, trodden for thousands of years so that their mark would never really leave the earth. Many were the only record of a ceremony once crucial to the people. Rachel had to admit to sometimes wondering if those old ceremonies had been valid, if once gods other than the Christian Trinity had linked themselves with humans, for good or ill. Her father would be ashamed of such thinking. As Rachel neared the rise, she could see that there was a clear path up the hill as well. It wound slightly, and appeared to have been carved out in places to make it easier, but it too looked very old.
